Dancing with Gravity Read online

  “I’m not sure what I can offer ….” Whiting let his sentence trail off, hoping that Mother Frances would volunteer more information. In the silence that followed, he thought back to the scene outside the boardroom. His expression grew more serious. “Why me?”

  “Your position at St. Theresa’s would suggest it. But the recommendation itself came from Sarah James.”

  “Sarah?” With the mention of her name, he remembered his search for her earlier that day and, adding to the confusion of the moment, wondered again whether her receptionist had relayed his messages.

  “She’s working with us to sort out details and arrange publicity.”

  What was it I wanted to tell Sarah? It’s a jumble. Whiting forced himself to put Sarah aside and listen to Mother Frances. “When the situation with Father Devereaux arose, Sarah immediately suggested you. She holds you in high regard, Father. As does St. Theresa’s.”

  Whiting looked at his lap, humbled. But Devereaux. What had happened?

  “As I’m sure you know, I’ve just returned from an extended conference in Rome.” He both hoped and feared that this reminder might excuse him from her request. To be noticed is not an inclination. Yet, to be admired …. As he waited for her reply, he could not have said which outcome he preferred.

  “If you need to reallocate some of your responsibilities at St. Theresa’s in order to meet this request, please, be assured that you have the medical center’s full support.” She had made her decision.

  Whiting was surprised at his own sense of relief. Seized with a sudden desire to prove his competence, he was determined to demonstrate that Mother Frances had made the right choice.

  “I’ll get in touch with Sarah as soon as I get back to the hospital.”

  “She’s on the grounds now. She is expecting you at the main tent immediately after our meeting.” She placed her teacup on the tray beside his. She was not going to volunteer anything else.

  He could not decide whether he should press for answers or find Sarah. Certainly she’ll have more to tell. “Forgive me for saying so, but this entire conversation—the situation itself—seems unbelievable. In fact, my first day back has been a bit of a challenge.”

  Mother Frances folded her napkin slowly and placed it on the tray.

  “Father, I know what you mean. This circus has created a most unexpected set of circumstances. The situation is complicated, but we are committed.” She leveled her gaze at him. “We will do everything to assist you, I assure you, but it is essential that we have your full support.”

  Whiting was sure he detected a note of urgency in these last sentences. He sat very still, hoping that Mother Frances would say more. When he realized that it was she who was waiting for a response, he stammered.

  “I want you to know … that is … I have always been a great admirer of your mission. And … I consider it an honor that you have called on me.” Mother Frances watched him intently. “I will, of course, be happy to help in any way I can.”

  She lowered her eyes. “We seek to humbly follow in the steps of our patroness, to serve as the Little Flower did, in the name of Christ.” She looked up and smiled, then rose from her seat. The meeting was ended. Whiting also stood. As he turned to leave, he looked up and saw a sculpture that hung on the wall high above his chair.

  “Bernini.” He could hardly believe that he had not noticed it earlier.

  “The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa of Avilla. Do you know it?”

  “I saw the original in Rome only two weeks ago. It’s absolutely magnificent.” He remembered how Bernini’s work had moved him—and recalled his discomfort and admiration in the presence of the passion it depicted. As he considered the sculpture now, he saw that the reproduction was nearly as affecting as the original. An angel held the hand of Saint Theresa as rays pierced her heart. The saint’s eyes were closed, her mouth opened in rapture. The look on the angel’s face was all knowledge and pleasure at seeing the saint’s reaction. Whiting recalled his first impression. “Such ecstasy.” His voice was little more than a whisper.

  Mother Frances regarded the sculpture as she recited the story it represented. “And the angel of great beauty ‘pierced my heart again and again with a golden arrow, producing a pain so great I screamed aloud, but simultaneously felt such infinite sweetness that I wished the pain to last eternally.’”

  “The piercing arrows of love.” Even as he said these words, Whiting realized how strange they must sound to Mother Frances. His response was a mystery even to him. But he wasn’t embarrassed. Instead, he experienced an almost physical sensation of being caressed. He half closed his eyes and gave himself over to it.

  “… the wounds suffered for our salvation,” Mother Frances continued.

  “I’m sorry. What?” He had missed the beginning of the nun’s remarks.

  “The words of your own community,” she said. “‘No greater evidence of love than this: the wounds suffered for our salvation.’”

  “Oh, yes. Of course.” The sensation was slipping away. Whiting focused hard, tried to hold it, but it was fading, like the last dream before consciousness. Moments later, it was gone. He turned his attention back to Mother Frances, who stood before him, silent, unreadable. He struggled for something to say, but finding nothing, he simply nodded and left.

  As Whiting stepped outside he was surprised at the puddles on the walk. A brief shower had passed through during his meeting, but he hadn’t even noticed. He paused at a low stone wall near his car and breathed deeply the fragrance of rich soil after rain. The groundskeepers had added spring mulch to the garden. Everywhere, the landscape was coming into bloom. A nearby pond reflected a row of flowering redbuds at its edge. A line of dogwoods on a far slope showed their first pink blossoms. He looked back toward the circus tent, but a stand of evergreens obscured his view. Its absence lent an air of unreality to his conversation with Mother Frances.

  The afternoon was still mild, and he considered walking to the tent where Sarah waited. The idea appealed to him, but the thought of returning to the motherhouse for his car did not. While his conversation with Mother Frances had gone well enough, he decided that his anxiety before their meeting had been so intense that he did not want to risk a second encounter.

  Whiting pulled off the gravel path and parked on the grass just beyond the striped tent. Seeing no signs of Sarah or her white Toyota, he passed several minutes waiting in his car, allowing the circus to settle into his reality, then decided to go inside.

  He caught sight of a makeshift fence and followed it around to the side of the striped tent. There, hidden from view, he saw a collection of campers parked within the corral of day-glo plastic lace. Many of the trailers looked almost new and gave the impression that their occupants were merely on vacation. Others were little more than peeling plywood enclosures erected over the beds of aging pick-ups. He found their rusted fenders and dented doors somehow embarrassing and felt himself a trespasser on the scene.

  Whiting was relieved—and confused—to see Sarah’s car parked among the campers. He decided she must be waiting for him inside the tent and followed the arc of the fence back around toward the smaller, blue tent. An oversized safety pin, at least eight inches in length, held the flap open, providing an entrance. Badly rusted, it trailed an orange stain down the vinyl. Several rectangular tables covered with red and white checked oilcloth lined the tent walls. Folding wooden chairs stood in small groupings and suggested invisible inhabitants engaged in simultaneous islands of conversation.

  He passed through the blue tent to the entrance of the striped one. Whiting hesitated, then pulled open its flaps and stepped forward, into the darkness. He smelled fresh sawdust and something else—a heavy, rich aroma that filled his nostrils and lay upon his tongue. The animals.

  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw that he was on a metal ramp that rose toward the ring, then divided to encircle it. The walkway swayed under his weight giving his steps a loud, hollow resonance. Metal benche
s shone softly in the low light and rose up for eight rows around the ring. Red and yellow banners featured stylized circus scenes and lined the walls of the tent. On one, three ponies passed beneath the belly of a plumed white horse, while on another, a clown wearing a bowler hat played a violin no larger than a banana. The next panel featured a dark-haired woman, her body twisted into a seemingly impossible position, as she balanced trays of candles on her head, feet, and hands—like Vishnu, restoring the balance of the world.

  One banner depicted a man on a trapeze, bent to embrace the waist of a woman who hung below the swing. Delicate strokes of gold glitter on the panel caught the light as it moved—almost imperceptibly—with the current of air. Whiting studied the image. Unlike the others, this one seemed to portray a single intimate act.

  He followed the walkway to the rear of the tent. A proscenium arch, curtained with red velvet, defined the rear entrance. Little Flower Circus was painted in ornate script across the pleated fabric and outlined in gold. He took a step forward, then stopped. He wanted to see what lay beyond the curtain, but was afraid that someone might see him and disapprove.

  He turned back and circled to the left side of the ring. A small bandbox sat just beyond the walkway, level with the ground. Red velvet roping along three sides cordoned off six chairs, music stands, and a set of drums. A low wooden wall—painted bright red—made up the fourth side and was all that separated the musicians from the ring. He stepped down from the walkway and ran his fingers along the velvet rope, then disconnected it from the stanchion. His transgression thrilled him. He reattached the rope behind him, and took a seat on one of the musicians’ chairs. The ring seemed very close from this vantage point. He leaned forward and rested his arms on the wooden ring curb as he studied the cables that traversed the upper reaches of the tent. Ropes snaked through poles at either side of the ring and ended in elaborate knots. Two trapeze swings were secured to platforms that rose nearly to the ceiling. He wondered whether the performers could touch the tent top when they stood there.

  A dial thermometer at the highest point of the ceiling showed seventy-two degrees—at least twenty degrees warmer than the air outside. He tried to imagine the performers crossing the high wire in the summer, when the heat inside the tent must be particularly intense. How do they maintain their concentration? Avoid losing their footing? He realized, with a start, that there was no net beneath the wire, then gave his attention to the metal poles that circled the ring and looked for places where a net might be attached. A rustle behind the curtain distracted him.

  “Sam! I’m so glad you’re here!”

  Whiting stood as Sarah entered the bandbox. She hugged him warmly, an uncharacteristic gesture between them. Her greeting surprised and delighted him.

  “I really didn’t think I could wait for you to get back to work. How was your trip? Oh, never mind, we’ll talk about all that later. What matters is that you’re here at last and can see this for yourself.” She clasped her hands together—the gesture of an excited child—and took in the ring. “The whole thing is unbelievable, really.” Her cheeks were flushed when she turned back to him. “You’re so dear to me, Sam. I can’t imagine anyone else who would be more perfect.”

  Sarah’s cascade of sentences captivated and confused him; he could not remember when he’d seen her so animated. “Perfect? In what way?”

  “Everything will become clear.” She opened her eyes wide as she spoke. The gesture was so theatrical Whiting wasn’t sure how he should respond. “So how was your vacation?”

  “Conference.”

  “Of course. But I asked you that already.” She laughed. “I want to see all your pictures. You always take such lovely photographs.”

  Her energy was infectious, and he could not stop himself from smiling. “I still haven’t had time to drop them off.”

  “We’ll talk about all that soon, I promise. But right now, I think you’ll agree that this is more amazing than anything you saw in Italy.” His smile deepened at her exaggeration.

  “Would you settle for ‘outrageous?’”

  Her face lit up. “Yes! The situation is outrageous. And that’s only the beginning.”

  “The fact is … I don’t really understand what’s going on.”

  “Didn’t Mother Frances answer all your questions?”

  He suspected she was trying to be playful, but there was an edge to her voice. “She said there’d been an inheritance.”

  “Now there’s an understatement—even for someone as cautious as you.” Stung by her answer, he colored and looked away.

  “Oh, Sam, I apologize.” She stepped toward him and rested both hands on his forearm. “It’s just that it’s such a long, complicated story.” She drew out the last three words for effect, emphasizing each for deeper meaning. “We’ve been fighting with the board for weeks. Maybe it took more of a toll on me than I realized.”

  He thought back to the scene outside the boardroom earlier that day. “Your fight isn’t over yet, is it? In fact, it might even be getting worse.”

  She looked surprised. “Did Mother Frances tell you that?”

  “Not exactly.” He couldn’t meet her gaze. “I overheard an argument as I passed the boardroom this morning.”

  “Eavesdropping were we? I’d always hoped you had it in you.”

  “It was purely by accident. I couldn’t help it really. The voices were quite loud.” He stole a glance at her.

  “So,” she leaned in, “what did you hear?”

  He had never so completely captured Sarah’s attention. But now that he had it, he had lost his train of thought.

  “You’re not going to keep secrets are you?”

  “No, um, I mean they were arguing about who was in charge. About going against some earlier vote.”

  “Do you know who was speaking?”

  “Childs Littleton.”

  Sarah’s expression darkened. “Are you sure? How do you know?”

  “Because he nearly ran over me when he stormed out of the meeting.”

  “I think you’ve come back just in time.”

  “In time for what? You make it sound as though we’re in the midst of some great intrigue.”

  “Hold that thought. It’s closer to the truth than you know.”

  “I really don’t ‘know’ anything. What exactly is going on?”

  Sarah took a seat in one of the musicians’ chairs and motioned Whiting to sit beside her. She inclined her head toward his, until they were almost touching.

  “We all know that the sisters control the medical center, right?”

  Whiting nodded stupidly.

  “But that’s only part of their mission. They work in other places too … like Mexico … Central and South America.”

  “That’s not uncommon. Besides, they’re missionary sisters. They serve the poor wherever they’re called.”

  Sarah frowned at his explanation. “Maybe so. But it seems that one of their projects has gone way beyond your basic health and welfare.”

  “What are you saying?”

  She hesitated. He was sure she was trying to decide whether or not to tell him what she knew. When she spoke again, her voice was low, her tone, urgent.

  “All right, here’s the scoop. But it doesn’t go past the two of us. Promise?”

  He waited for her to continue.

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Do you promise?”

  “This is a bit dramatic, Sarah.”

  “If you don’t promise, I can’t say another word.”

  “All right. I promise.”

  Sarah glanced quickly around the empty tent before resuming her story. “The sisters had a lay member named Loretto Piersoll Finch. Ever hear of her?” Whiting shook his head. “Her husband and daughter were killed by lightning not far from here.”

  “How terrible! When?”

  “Fifteen years ago, give or take a year—one of those freak accident things—apparently it wasn’t even
raining. But that’s not the point. What matters is that this Mrs. Finch—she not only had millions of her own, but she married big money—turned to the Missionary Sisters after the accident. I don’t know the specifics, but somehow her retreat stretched into months, then years. Ultimately she became a lay member of their community. I didn’t even know that that sort of thing was allowed.”

  “Well, it depends on—” Sarah waved off his reply; Whiting was growing impatient. “So what does any of this have to do with the board?”

  “I’m getting to that. It seems this Mrs. Finch was always creating difficult projects for herself—the more demanding, the better.”

  “And …?”

  “And … well … she wasn’t just a hard worker. She was, or she became, fairly political. Under the umbrella of the sisters, she kept working her way into more and more unstable situations.” Sarah hesitated, and for a moment Whiting was afraid she wouldn’t say any more. “She got involved with political fugitives. You know, the Sanctuary Movement. She was saving people from government-sanctioned death squads.”

  “But what does any of this have to do with the board … or the circus?”

  “Loretto developed a kind of underground railroad to get people to safety. This circus was her cover.”

  Whiting searched the empty stands, as if government spies might be lurking in the shadows. “Where’s Mrs. Finch now?”

  “She’s dead.”

  He gasped.

  “Nothing like that. It was cancer. She died a few weeks ago in Texas—literally days after she got everybody across the border. The sisters didn’t know about any of it—the cancer, her return to the States, or the circus.”

  “Wait a minute.” Whiting struggled to absorb Sarah’s words. “Who exactly is ‘everybody?’”

  Sarah smiled. “Let’s just say that—practically speaking—the Circus of the Little Flower has arrived in the United States.”

  “She brought an entire circus and a group of refugees across the border? Legally?”

  “In some cases, the performers and the refugees are one and the same. Look, Sam, this Loretto woman might have been crazy religious, but she wasn’t crazy … and she was rich. Money talks everywhere—especially on the border.”